As faithfully delivered by a Christ Universalist minister whose name cannot be recalled at this particular moment but will be supplied the next time we come across it, the following text was composed literally in the eleventh hour just before the service itself as guests were still pouring into the house, asking questions about the phone number and the address, creating odd nuisances et cetera. Meanwhile, we also began to worry the minister wasn't going to show. She arrived at quarter til the midnight hour, was quite a tiny woman in her early 70s, less than five feet tall, but sharp enough to take this wild group on its own terms.

Friends and fellow wankers, we are collected here at this obnoxious but corrective hour to witness and celebrate a high and holy social contract, the merger of two special and not so undeserving characters of repose who dare to laugh at the ghost of confusion and hypocrisy by proclaiming their committment to their own autonomous gaze into the crippled status of matrimony. Let us recognize this in smiles and other fine washables; rejoice and rememberbe faithful and multiply!

Sue and Gabriel, you are inspiring each other to weld a solid relationship tonight based not on the old unreliable concept of love, but based on a mutual need and alienation which has confounded the experts, belittled the gossips, and wrecked the ties that bind. There exists some doubt in the cynical minds of the disgruntled that you are entitled to such a paper chase turf as you have laid claim, but you march in vision towards homogeny, continuity, creative indulgence, and artistic supplication. This marriage is made in the earthiest of terrain, in heaven as on earth. Til death shall you partake of the felled pleasures and chosen responsibilities of your vows.

Make no vows but invoke spaz integrity. A spiritual conspiracy. Words that evaporate the pain of living should be your constant effort. Shepherd your facts with a nose towards each others lusts and inspirations, for it is with this stroke and ardor that gives good odor to the breath of your next ideal. No danger would then come to you or your moral codes. Live for no slogans. For slogans are merely wordsuck. Your knowledge shall become profound through the carnal test of time so as to stump your detractors, bury the dead, raise the living to new heights of surrealistic acceptance focussing on passion’s denomination. Your creed is your terminal belief in the naked symbols of rite and behavior. You struggle to resurrect them in each other. You bank on each other. You survive each other. Your bootheels are legends to your maps of subtle decency. How many times have people you have knownand even yourselves—vowed forever and forever…only to scratch off in that great statistical graveyarddivorce? So who’s in charge here? What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. The scam is up, the audience never sleeps.

This is America the Unsolvable. This is SAMPLEX. This is holy matrimony, and finally, this is Gabriel and Sue. Will you about faceto face it?

Gabriel, do you take Sue to be your work of dependency, to love her, to protect her and to be her number one skank, as long as you both shall remember? And Sue, do you take Gabriel to be your work of dependency, to love him, to protect him from his distant daze, and to be his crown of thorns so long as you both shall curry to invest?

The rings

Your rings are a sign of the times, to be worn as a perpetual warning to yourselves and to others that love is lost when confusion knocks on inspiration’s door. Souls grow on bones but die beneath bankers’ hours. Go forth and search new words and new seasons for contraband. Take these rings in remembrance of these things.

Remember too, the beguiling phrases. (They took us as fools and pried us free of our questions.) This is just another evening, an unquoted evening, in the weird annals of mankind. Don’t waste words, at their condition. They may never come again. And don’t waste Sid Vicious. He may never come again! I pronounce you skank and skank, known here and forever as:

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Quoth the Raven

"Intellectual economics guarantees that even the most powerful and challenging work cannot protect itself from the order of fashion. Becoming-fashion, becoming-commodity, becoming-ruin. Such instant, indeed retroactive ruins, are the virtual landscape of the stupid underground. The exits and lines of flight pursued by Deleuze and Guattari are being shut down and rerouted by the very people who would take them most seriously."